Silence at Baker Street
by Thread-wing
Summary: Sherlock runs into a bit of trouble with a new case
1. Day 1

**Happy Halloween my lovely followers. Here's a treat from me to you, a Halloween WhoLock crossover. This is a three chapter story that will be concluded Halloween night. Thanks so much for your lovely views and reviews, and sorry I've been slacking so much on my other fics. Enjoy.**

* * *

"Sherlock for god's sake, I don't care if it's almost Halloween, get that bloody arm out of the sink!" John shouted down the hall. No reply. He rolled his eyes, giving the quite literally bloody arm a death glare before grabbing his jacket and heading towards the door. "I'm going out. Staying at Sarah's until Halloween, and I expect that _thing_ to be gone when I get back on Thursday." Still no reply. Boy, wasn't it great to have a flatmate that cared so much about everything you do? John sighed before stepping out the door, shouting over his shoulder as he closed it behind him "See you in three days."

Sherlock listened from his bedroom as his flatmate left, resting his head back against the wall as he closed his laptop in frustration. This was usually the time of year for all kinds of interesting crimes, and yet nothing had happened in the past three weeks. It's almost as though London was holding her breath for something big to happen, but that big thing couldn't come soon enough for the detective. With an impatient grunt, he shifted off the side of his bed, blue robe flaring out as he retrieved his mobile from his coat pocket. Nothing. What a disappointing morning. He pocketed the phone and made his way through to the living room, hoping he could find something distracting to do until something interesting happened.

* * *

"You're kidding right, that's the third missing person's this week!" Lestrade rubbed at his eyes, exhausted, having been up all night working on these mysterious missing person's cases. Three this week, which makes nine in total. "Not even a body left behind, why can't there at least be a body to examine? We might get somewhere if we actually had some solid evidence. But of course, that would only make it easy."

Donovan shifted in the doorway, dropping the files onto the DI's desk. "At least the freak hasn't caught on yet. I'm surprised, actually, that this has been kept so under the radar. The media hasn't even caught on."

Lestrade picked up the file, leafing through the contents. "That's because we can't make any progress on it. No bodies, no witnesses, not even an exact time of abduction. The only thing we _do_ have is an approximate location to where each victim disappeared." He leaned back in his chair, running a nervous hand through his silver hair. "... I really don't think we have any other choice here."

Donovan sighed, leaning dramatically on the door frame. "Oh come on, we could at least work on it a little longer..."

"No, we need help, there's no way we'll be able to do this on our own." Lestrade replaced the file on his desk, picking up his mobile.

"He won't even take it. It's a missing persons case, he won't be interested."

Lestrade smiled, holding the phone up to his ear. "It's a weird one, he'll take it."

* * *

Sherlock nearly pounced on his phone when it started buzzing on the coffee table, sprawling across the couch as he answered it on the second ring. "Lestrade?"

"_Yeah, Sherlock, I think I've got something for you._"

The detective sighed in relief "You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say that."

A light chuckle on the other end "_Bored, are ya?_"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, composing himself a little "You have no idea. Something interesting I hope?"

"_Yeah, there's been a few disappearances lately..._"

Sherlock groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Oh please Lestrade! I believe I said something _interesting_!"

"_Yeah, hold on, maybe if you weren't so keen to interrupt me, you'd find I have something worth your while_"

A dramatic sigh "Go on"

"_Right, now, as I've said there's been quite a number of these reports, and the disappearances have been going on for about a month now_."

"A month, really?"

"_Yes._"

"How many?"

"Three this week alone, nine in all."

"Interesting. What have you uncovered so far."

A long pause on the line "... Nothing."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, smirking at the usual incompetence of Scotland Yard. "Nothing? Really?"

He could hear the irritation in the DI's voice. "No, nothing. No bodies, no witnesses, the only thing we do have are a couple of locations where the victims were last seen."

Sherlock sighed, glancing at his watch. Almost 10:00 am. Well, he had nothing better to do. "Where was the latest victim last seen?"

"_Near Lauriston Gardens, believe it or not._"

Sherlock smiled, the fond memory of his and John's first case together coming back to him briefly. Hopefully it wasn't another crazed cabbie going around killing people, dull. "Text me the address, I'll meet you there."

* * *

"Glad you could make it, where's John?"

Sherlock straightened his suit as he stepped out of the cab. "Hello Inspector, he's on holiday, per say. Who was the victim and where did the disappear?"

"Delilah Dedrickson, 23 years old, 5'2" caucasian woman." Lestrade handed Sherlock the woman's photo, pointing towards a park bench against an old brick building. "She was last seen over there by a couple of passersby."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the picture and examining it as he made his way over to the bench. Curly red shoulder length hair, London local, recently married, faithful to her husband. He looked up at the bench, noting the thin layer of dust that had settled over the wood. A lot of dust, in fact. No, not dust... He knelt closer to the ground, examining a small pile of the stuff on the ground. Very light greyish brown and extremely fine. Not dust, ash. He stood up swiftly, looking over the brick wall. Faint scorch marks, caused by electrical currents. My my, the Yard's detective skills really were lacking. But there was still something wrong. Nothing really connected. Unless he wanted to take strategic lightning strikes into account. Well, this was turning out to be an interesting case. Something caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to stare down an alley off the opposite side of the street.

"Got anything?" Lestrade came up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

Sherlock turned back to him, furrowing his brow "... No.. not much." Something... Something wasn't connecting in his brain, something important. He shook his head lightly, turning away with a whisk of his coat and hailing a cab before the DI could get a word in edgewise.

Lestrade watched him go, calling after him "Sherlock? Sherlock!" but by then he was already in the cab and driving away.

* * *

The other scenes all held the same confusing evidence. A thin pile of fine ash, electrical scorch marks, and even tiny burnt scraps of fabric lying here and there. The only possible explanation was that the victims weren't actually missing, but were, in fact, burnt to ash by an electrical force. But by who? Why? And the most vexing, how?

He needed someone to bounce ideas off of. Of course John had to leave right when an interesting case appeared. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text, just to clear his mind.

_What do you know of spontaneous human combustion? SH_

He didn't have to wait long for a reply _You'd better not be experimenting in our kitchen. Is that arm out of the sink? JW_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _It's not an experiment, it's a case_ He thought for a moment before adding _I disposed of it this morning. What do you know of spontaneous human combustion?_

_It's a myth, really. I've heard of some bizarre cases of heavy smokers with an extremely high BAC would set themselves alight with a stray match, and burn more completely due to the alcohol, but not completely spontaneous combustion._

Sherlock smirked to himself, imagining the stupidity of some people. Well, that cut out that possibility. Only two or three of the victims were smokers and non of them very heavy drinkers. Come to think of it, they were all fairly normal, average, everyday citizens.

Sherlock sighed "Dull..."

But something was wrong. Something wasn't connecting somewhere in his mind. It was like he had no outlet to plug in a wire, or rather... he'd forgotten there was an outlet there. But that's impossible. He doesn't forget anything.

* * *

"Victim?"

"Anthony Baker, 47, 6'5" African male, last seen here two hours ago by his neighbor. She's over there if you want to speak with her."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow "Two hours and already reported missing?"

Lestrade nodded. "He was mentally challenged, had a nurse checking in on him every five hours. She comes by and finds him missing at around 8:30, called us half an hour later."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 10:25. He looked up at the obnoxiously yellow house before him. "Well, lets take a look inside then, shall we?"

* * *

The inside was just as poorly decorated, though obviously with some sort of strategic placement. Furniture was placed in such a way that there was no place to hide. Every inch of each room was visible from every angle, as though the victim wanted to be sure that nothing was hiding from him. There were even plenty of impromptu weapons lying around, scissors, bottles, even small branches propped up against the walls. This man was afraid of something, in his own home.

"Anything so far?" Lestrade walked up behind him, maneuvering around an oddly placed coffee table.

Sherlock nodded, glancing around the room again. "Anthony Baker, neurotic, possibly psychotic, built his life around constant paranoia, even arranging his home in a way that it would be impossible for anyone to hide anywhere and..." He paused, spying a plaid jacket strewn across the arm of a nearby chair. He strolled over to it, lifting the sleeve and examining the cotton fabric. Black marks littered the cuffs, tally's it would seem, drawn in sharpie marker. He glanced around, finding said marker on the table. He furrowed his brow. And another on the television, and three more on the coffee table. "... Where is his closet?"

Lestrade frowned, opening his mouth to question the detective, then thought better of it and led him to the victim';s bedroom. He stood in the doorway as Sherlock moved to the closet, leafing through the multitude of jackets. He glanced at his watch "Look, Sherlock, you've got ten more minutes, I'll be in the other room."

Sherlock nodded, turning back to the victim's wardrobe. Similar marks on all the jacket cuffs, some even on the sleeves. He glanced around the room, spying a golf club leaning against the bed. The victim didn't play golf, it was obvious from his left hand, so this must be another makeshift weapon with which to protect himself. He picked it up, examining it carefully. It was well used, very dented and twisted to the point of being unusable as an actual golf club. So he used it often to fend off an attacker, but who? He looked around the room again, silvery eyes shifting to the far corner...

"Time's up, I'll need everything you've got." Sherlock glanced towards the door, where Lestrade was staring at him with that 'I-don't-really-want-to-know-but-I'm-going-to-ask-anyway'' look on his face "What are you doing?"

Sherlock lowered his arms, which had somehow come to hold the golf club in a defensive position, as though he were fending off an attacker. He glanced down at his watch, surely that was only a minute or two, tops, there was no way... huh, it had definitely been ten minutes. Funny, not like him to lose track of time like that. He looked back up at the DI, who was expecting an answer. Deciding quickly to ignore the second question, he launched into his usual speech of police incompetence and how most of the clues were so blatantly obvious even Anderson could've spotted them. "I thought at first that the victim most likely suffered from some sort of paranoid personality disorder, but upon further speculation of the weapons he kept around the house, I'd say he was regularly under attack."

Lestrade crossed his arms, looking skeptical. "Anthony Baker was a mental patient, he wasn't allowed any weapons."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, gesturing to the club that he'd thrown aside "Makeshift weapons. Oh, come on, even you should have noticed the unusually large number of _tree branches_ lying around."

Lestrade glanced around the room, counting each object that could be used as a weapon of sorts. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right, I'm always right, now if you don't mind." and with that he was gone, nearly racing out of the house and making his way to the main road. He needed to get back to Baker street, quick, before anyone realized the missing piece of evidence. He pulled the pair metal scissors from his pocket, examining the apparently rusted point. Blood, most likely. And the thin veil of ash meant they were probably in the victim's hand when he 'disappeared'. He should definitely run some tests on these. He held a hand to his forehead, running his slender fingers through his dark curls. There was that feeling again, that grinding sensation in his brain as though it was trying to fit something in where it didn't belong. Like he'd forgotten something that he didn't even know was there in the first place.

* * *

Unfortunately, the tests had proved inconclusive. The rust coloured substance didn't register as human blood, not even any type of animal blood. In fact, it was a completely unknown substance altogether, completely unrecognizable and with no proof of any previous recordings. It shouldn't exist. Which only proved to be even more of a problem. Sherlock brought his hands down from their usual position against his lips, scratching absently at the five nicotine patches distributed between both arms. He glanced at his mobile, wondering briefly what John's opinion would be. He sat up on the couch, glaring down at the 10 photo's spread across the coffee table of the missing victims. He picked up his phone, sending his flatmate another text.

_Missing person's case. 10 victims in total, spread out in the time span of a month, not a trace left behind aside from a thin layer of ash and faint electrical scorch marks. Just received evidence of an unknown substance from one crime scene. Thought at first to be blood, but tests show up negative. Thoughts? SH_

He hit send and set the phone down beside him, shifting the photo's around on his desk to deduce each victim in turn. Anthony Baker first. No clear signs of a mental disability, perhaps he'd been driven mad by constant paranoia. He glanced at his hands. The cuffs of his shirt were littered with tallies, and his hands were nearly black with similar marks, as well as a few words, _RUN_ seeming to be the most preferred.

He moved on to the ninth victim, Delilah Dedrickson. Nothing particularly special, though she had that haunted look in her eyes. Almost impossible to tell from a photograph, but now that he thought of it, it looked like she was constantly frightened of something. He glanced at her hands, which were clutching a bit too tightly to her purse. His eyes widened a fraction. The marks! The same black tallies covered her hands, not as fully as Baker's, but enough to spark some concern.

His phone went off as he quickly looked over the remaining eight victims. Each and every one of them had the same odd habit of marking up their hands, counting out tallies and scrawling down warnings. Run. Get out. Danger. He was shocked that the Yard had missed this. He picked up his phone.

_Have you considered aliens? Extraterrestrial involvement? JW_

Sherlock snorted to himself, clearly amused by the very idea. _I didn't know you believed in that sort of nonsense._

Another long wait, which Sherlock filled with shuffles of paper as he looked through the pictures again. Actually, with the evidence presented, something not of this world started to seem like a logical explanation. His phone beeped again.

_Well, what other conclusions have you come to?_

Leave it to John to put it so bluntly. Sherlock sighed, leafing through the written descriptions of each victim. He'd been through each file before, and noticed a few repeated words in each description. Crazy. Schizophrenic. Paranoid. Believed she was being chased by aliens. Funny, now that he looked over it again, aliens seemed to be popping up a lot. This one was an astrologer, that one attended group therapy meetings for alien sightings. Maybe he should do a bit more research on the topic...


	2. Day 2

**Happy Halloween's Eve everybody, excited for tomorrow? I know I am! Anyway, you didn't come here to hear me babble on about my life and such, so here's Day 2 of my Halloween WhoLock crossover. Please Enjoy!**

* * *

"Are you serious? This is really getting ridiculous!" Lestrade tossed the file of yet another missing victim onto his desk, covering his face with his hands as he let out an exasperated sigh. Donovan stood in the doorway again, an equally frustrated look distorting her expression. "I can't believe this, there must be something we've overlooked. Something big, something obvious, something staring us right in the face! What are we missing?"

"Sherlock hasn't found anything yet?" Sally shifted her weight awkwardly to her heels, absently shifting the files she held close to her chest. It was obvious something was distressing her.

Greg stared up at her. She never referred to the consulting detective as anything other than 'The Freak'. Something seemed off "What's wrong with you?"

She motioned to the file on his desk. "This victim, Andrew Barr, last seen walking home yesterday..."

Lestrade picked up the file, sifting through the papers. His eyes widened in shock "12 years old? You've got to be kidding me, he's just a child." He leafed through the victims pictures, the pale face of Andrew Barr smiling back at him with a toothy grin. "Poor kid.."

Donovan nodded, quickly retreating from the office as Lestrade dismissed her. He drew a hand to his face, running his fingers through his greying hair line. This was just too much. He picked up his mobile and dialed the all too familiar number.

"Hey, its me. Yeah, we've got another one."

* * *

Sherlock searched the boys room carefully, leafing through his closet, but not finding any marks on his clothing. Although, he discovered

notebooks filled with the same tallies scattered over his desk and around his room, along with the usual words. Run. Get Out. They're Here.

He picked one up off of the boys desk, flipping through it to the last filled page. His lips curled with satisfaction as he read the words scrawled hastily in black ink.

_Password: 612879543_

_File: DocumentsVideosJournals_

_DON'T FORGET_

He glanced towards the door, wondering if he should call for Lestrade. The DI was in the kitchen, questioning the mother about the boys life. Pointless, he thought, the mother was never around and the father was obviously no longer in the picture. He decided against it and opened the kid's laptop, which was lying out on his desk, quickly typing in the password and accessing the correct files. He was met with a collection of recorded videos, all of young Andrew talking to the camera. A video diary, apparently. He scrolled through to the most recent one and, making sure the sound was just loud enough for only him to hear, pressed play.

A lanky boy appeared on the screen, old enough for his voice to have started changing, but still too young to have completely lost his bright blond hair. He leaned forward in his chair, carefully adjusting the camera before speaking in a shaky voice.

"_Mom's out again tonight, won't be home until late, she says. I'm all alone again and I'm afraid that 'thing' will appear at any moment._" He paused to run his fingers through his hair, taking a short, shallow breath. Sherlock looked around the room, making a few deductions. Social outcast, most likely bullied for his paranoia, belief in the supernatural, and lack of physical strength. Attended public school and interested in the dramatic arts. He turned his attention back to the screen as Andrew started speaking again.

"_I don't know... I don't know why they are here or what they are or what they want from me. But I've been seeing them more and more often. At least, I think I have._" He raised his arm to the camera, and Sherlock saw that it was marked to the elbow in the same dark tallies. Andrew sighed, lowering his arm again and counting the marks quickly to himself. 65. "_I'm making this video now in case... well.. I don't know what they want from me, any night could be my last. No one will listen to me, so I'm dedicating this entry to tell the world how I... how I've gone, if it is, in fact, them who took me._" Another pause, during which the boy scratched nervously at his arms, smudging a few of the fresher lines "_I also want to warn the world about them, and tell everyone how to protect themselves._" He leaned over to grab a pen off his desk, holding it up to the camera. "_I don't know what they are, and I don't know what they look like, but every time you see one, use this. Use this to mark in a notebook or on your arm or anywhere, tell yourself that they're there. Because as soon as you look away..._" He swallowed nervously, staring at the camera with frightened grey eyes. "_Every time you look away, they're gone. You forget them. They never existed._" He set the pen back down, rolling it absently on his desk. "_It's hard to explain... You won't believe yourself at first, and don't try to remember, because you won't. But every time you see a mark, run. Get out of there. You can't fight them off. There's nothing to do but run._" Andrew paused for a moment before leaning forward and switching the camera off. The screen went dark.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, staring thoughtfully at the blank screen. This was new, this was definitely something new. And he had no clue how to deal with it. He looked around the room nervously. Had he seen them before? There was no way of knowing. He grabbed the pen sitting on the desk, the same one Andrew used in the video. No use in trying to remember if he'd seen any, so he'd better be prepared. He closed the laptop and stood up, taking a more careful look around the room, pen in hand. He searched through the closet, behind every piece of furniture, around every corner, and when he was done, looked down at his arm.

Nothing.

He sighed, half in relief, half in annoyance, and made his way out of the room.

Lestrade looked up as he passed the kitchen, calling after him "Sherlock, wait!" He quickly excused himself from the interrogation of the boy's mother, who, at this point, was sobbing hysterically. He dashed after the detective, catching him by the arm. "Sherlock, please, I need your input on this."

The taller man turned to look down at him, noting how exhausted the poor DI looked. He hadn't slept properly in days, staying conscious on caffeine alone. Sherlock sighed, not wanting to admit that he practically had next to nothing to report on. Well, aside from the video diary, but that was a little far fetched. "I think I may have a lead, but..." He glanced down at Lestrade's anxious expression. "No.. nevermind, it's nothing."

Greg visibly deflated, letting go of Sherlock's arm and passing a hand through his silver hair, which seemed to be growing lighter by the day. "Well, alright then. I guess this was a harder case than I thought."

Sherlock scowled to himself, hating admitting defeat. "Yes, it is." He turned away quickly before Lestrade could say anything else. Of course he had a lead, but it was a little ridiculous. He'd only share it with Lestrade and his team once he had good, solid evidence.

* * *

Baker street seemed unusually empty without John around. Sherlock lounged on the couch, tossing the pen high in the air and catching it as it fell back to him, replaying young Andrews message in his head.

"_Every time you see a mark, run. Get out of there. You can't fight them off. There's nothing to do but run._"

He sighed deeply, catching the pen again and sliding off the sofa. He smoothed out his white shirt and made his way to the kitchen, looking over the experiment results again. He was almost certain at this point that he was dealing with something alien. The thought frightened him a little more than it should have. He didn't know anything about the solar system, let alone extraterrestrial life forms. He smiled one of those manic grins that so often crossed his lips when he discovered something fun. This was a case that required some actual brain power, a puzzle that would take a while to solve. This was something new. And he couldn't be more excited.

"Joh..." he began to call out his flatmates name, only to stop himself mid syllable. Damn, he'd forgotten how much one had to do on one's own when they were alone. He quite fancied himself a cup of tea, though he didn't fancy making it himself.

Grumbling in annoyance, he turned away from the table and made his way across to the counter. He reached across the stove for the kettle, the cuff of his too tight shirt riding up slightly above his wrist. He froze instantly, heart skipping a beat before thudding madly against his chest.

There, scrawled messily against his otherwise flawless white skin, was a single black mark.

He whirled around, searching every corner of the room before holding his wrist up to his face. No change. He dashed about the flat, checking rooms and skin in turn before he ended up back where he started, breathing heavier now due to excitement and adrenaline. Still only the one black mark. Well, whatever was here is gone now. He was alone.

He rolled up his sleeve, touching the mark as he examined it closer. The ink smeared under his fingers, leaving a dark trail across his skin. Fresh, then. Must've seen it while he was in the kitchen. He retrieved the pen from his pocket, noting the light teeth marks on the cap from when he'd taken it off to mark his wrist. This was all so eerie. He couldn't remember anything, but the evidence was all there. He could feel his mind working furiously again to conjure up the missing memories, but he knew it was to no avail.

He sighed heavily, glancing at his watch. 9:30 already. He rubbed at his eyes, it was beginning to dawn on him just how frustrating this case was going to be. A monster that can't be remembered leaves behind no witnesses, and there was no way he could just out and say it was an alien with no solid proof. He drew himself up off the counter he was leaning on, considering for a moment doing more experiments on the blood. What for? This was all he had to go on, so even if he found something new, there was no point in connecting it to data that didn't exist. He made his way over to his chair, drawing his laptop onto his knees. He needed to see if anything like this had ever happened before.

This was going to be a long night.

**Sorry for the short chapter, guys, I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I swear! .**


	3. Day 3

"I think I'm honestly worried about Sherlock. He hasn't texted me since yesterday, and even that was something absurd. Something about aliens involved in one of his cases" John glanced at his phone anxiously, waiting for some word from his flat mate

.  
Sarah smirked at him from across the table, gesturing towards him with her fork. "Didn't you suggest that possibility?"

John rolled his eyes, setting the phone down next to his breakfast. "I was joking!" He exclaimed, mouth full of toast "I didn't think he'd actually take it as a possibility."

"You need to stop worrying. He's solved cases before he met you, and he's still alive, right?" John nodded "Then he'll be fine. He's a grown man, he can take care of himself."

John smiled into his tea "He only looks like a grown man, doesn't mean he is one."

Sarah laughed, bringing her plate to the counter. "Well let's hope he can fend for himself tonight. All those scary monsters out there, might run into something he can't handle. Boo!" John jumped as Sarah sneaked up behind him, laughing in his ear.

"Jesus, don't do that." He gave her arm a gentle swipe, turning back to his own breakfast. He waited until she'd left before mumbling to himself "... I do hope he'll be ok."

000

"_Aliens?_" Lestrade cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, Detective Inspector, I realize what I'm saying is borderline ridiculous..." Sherlock pleaded down the phone.

"_I'll say_" Greg interrupted, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "_Look, Sherlock, I'm well aware of how difficult this case is, maybe you're a little in over your head."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he continued surfing on his laptop. He'd been researching alien conspiracies all night, and was well into his third pot of coffee. "Lestrade, please, you know perfectly well that I can function normally, if not extraordinary under stress, especially compared to the rest of your pathetic little 'detective team'"

Lestrade sighed "_When's the last time you slept?_"

Sherlock thought about it a moment "Three days"

"_And have you eaten since you started this case_"

Another pause "No"

Now it was Greg's turn to roll his eyes "_Alright, well, I did promise John I would keep am eye on you while he's gone, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to recommend you cease to pursue this case an further_."

Sherlock shook his head 'no', even though the DI couldn't see him "This is preposterous. I'm perfectly capable of..."

Lestrade cut him off quickly "_Sherlock, this is an order. Take the day off. Go out, get something to eat, and then get some sleep tonight, please_"

"But..."

"_For both John's and my peace of mind_."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, obviously beaten. "Fine."

"_Good. I'll text you if there's any progress on the case, but try and relax while you..._" Sherlock hung up the phone before the DI could finish.

000

Sherlock kicked a few stones along the sidewalk, walking broodily down the street. He'd set out a few hours ago to think, mulling over the complex case. After a while he looked up, finally noticing that he was in a part of London he'd never been before. He paused, stopping mid gait on the sidewalk. Was he even in London anymore? He looked around, noting the significant lack of people. He was in an almost suburban area, outside the city. How long had he been walking? He glanced down at his watch, his heart skipping a beat.

Scrawled messily on the back of his arm were three terrifying words.

IN THE HOUSE

He looked up, finally noticing that he was standing directly in front of a rather horrifying looking Victorian style three story house. Every other house on the street was decorated to look either horror-esque or gaudily scary, with fake webs and plastic skeletons hanging from trees and crawling out of cardboard graves. But this one, this one was old, the creaking wood paneling grey with age and the windows broken and boarded up. Even the sky above the house appeared dark and gloomy, as though it was taken right out of one of those cheezy old horror movies and placed on the street.

But those were fake. And this was real. Oh, this was very much real.

Sherlock looked down at his arm again, frowning. What did that mean? Is the monster inside the house? Should he go in? He made a mental note to be more specific next time. With a quick look around again, he decided to risk it, and stepped confidently up to the old wrot iron gate. Locked. No problem, he wasn't above jumping the fence.

His coat billowed out behind him as he jumped down, scraping his right hand on the sharp bars crowning the ornate gate. He glanced down at his bleeding palm, noting that, although it wasn't deep, it was bleeding quite profusely. He closed his fingers around the wound, ignoring the pain as he started up the short paths to the moaning old house.

The door swung open easily as Sherlock touched it, as though it were welcoming him in. He stepped into the entryway, closing the door slowly behind him. He glanced around the room then down at his arms. Nothing yet.

A bat screeched by his head, making him jump. It flew up and around the room a few times, flapping madly about before disappearing up the stairs. My, what a fun Halloween this was turning out to be. He made his way to one of the twin curved staircases, pausing at the first step. This house had been quite marvelous once, made with the finest materials and of the time and exquisite craftsmanship. It was a shame, really, to see it so maltreated. The residents of the neighborhood now probably considered it haunted, walking their children around the long way to school so as not to cross its path. Sherlock chuckled to himself, examining the ornate carvings in the wooden handrail. He noticed a switch on the wall and, simply out of idle curiosity, flicked it on.

To his surprise, the lights flickered to life. Strange. Surely no one owns this house, so the electricity shouldn't still be working. He shrugged it off, filing that away as a mystery for another time. Right now, he had to find this so called alien.

Sherlock glanced down at his wrist again. Nothing but the faded black mark from yesterday and the previous message he left for himself. Very well, time to move on. And with that, he slowly began ascending the stairs, each one groaning mercilessly under his feet.  
He was met with a long hallway at the top, leading to two rooms on his left and three to the right. He flicked on another light switch, catching his breath slightly as he noticed new marks on the back of his left hand.

RUN RIGHT

And so he ran, dashing into the last room at the end of the hall. He closed the door behind him and quickly surveyed the room, checking both his arms for any new marks. None. He pulled his pen out of his pocket and examined it, finding drying blood from his earlier wound smeared over the sides. He replaced it into his coat pocket, leaning heavily against the door.  
He really didn't have a plan for this.

His breath hitched in his throat as he heard creaking echoing through from the other side of the door, slowly, very slowly, making it's way down the hall. Almost as though it was wounded, Sherlock noted with a bit of relief, as it would make vanquishing it that much easier. He pushed off the door, dashing to the other side of the room, which appeared to be some sort of casual library of sorts, and flung open the opposite door. He closed it quickly and upped his pace as he heard the first door slam open. Well, this was interesting, usually he was the one doing the chasing. He couldn't say he enjoyed it much the other way around.  
He nearly flew through the house, heart pumping fast as he made his way from room to room, marveling at the fact that he'd yet to end up in a closet or something. Finally, he stopped, hiding behind a corner and trying to keep his breath under control. He ran through all the information he had stored in his head, glancing at his wrists from time to time. So far he believed there was only one in the house, though he couldn't really be sure. He glanced at his watch. A quarter past nine. So he'd been running about for almost an hour now. Funny how time flies by when you don't remember some of it. He sighed heavily, formulating a plan of attack.

The decor of the house says 1920's, but the advanced electrical system put it somewhere in the early forties. So, the last owners vacated the house in the midst of World War 2. Usually high class families like these kept weapons of some sort in the house, but where? Most likely the attic. Now how was he going to get up there? He glanced about, wondering just where he was to start looking for the second set of stairs. He could see from outside that the house had three separate stories, with a storage room at above the third, which was most likely where the guns were kept. He just prayed they would be of some service to him.  
He jumped slightly when he heard a noise behind him, the same, slow, injured footsteps as earlier. He glanced around the corner quickly, then down at his wrist, furrowing his brow in mild surprise.

Instead of a black mark, there was a dark smear of blood across the back of his wrist.  
He looked down at his still bleeding cut, noticing that his fingers were now glistening red as well. He must have dropped the pen somewhere while he was running. Stupid! He'd need to be more careful.

The creaking steps grew closer still as Sherlock took off down the opposite hall, ducking into the first room he came across. There were so many rooms! He had no idea looking at it from the outside. No idea where he was. Thoroughly lost. It's like it was bigger on the inside.  
He continued running through the maze of rooms, not bothering to be quiet as he was sure the monster knew exactly where he was anyway. He glanced down at his hand, flexing his fingers to keep the wound from healing over. He'd need the ink if he wanted to stay alive.  
Running, running, running, never coming to a familiar room, yet never finding himself at a dead end. The floor creaked in protest now and then, threatening to plunge him through to the first floor.

Running, breathing, running. He turned one more corner.

Ah! Finally!

The stairs stretched up tall and dusty before him, winding up a decorated central column. More bats descended from the rotten ceiling as he clambered up the steps, slipping now and again on webs and mold. He emerged breathless at the top, looking around frantically and checking his wrists by the light of his phone. He was fairly confident by now that there was only the one downstairs, which he could hear coming slowly down the hall. It must have a very intricate knowledge of the house to be able to follow him so closely. He walked carefully into the darkness, feeling his way around until he came to a window.

It was dark out by now, with only the lights of other houses illuminating the street. He could catch glimpses of children walking around in their cheap costumes, walking from house to house as if nothing was the matter, as if there wasn't a man about to be murdered in that scary house across the street.

The creature was climbing the stairs now, slowly, agonizingly, as though each step was a countdown to the detective's ultimate demise. He searched about the ceiling frantically for a ladder or a trap door or _something_ that would get him to the attic.

He dashed around the corner, taking a brief moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He flicked desperately at the light switch, but of course, these lights didn't work. He felt his way around the shadows, looking for something, anything to help him see. He picked up a cool metal rod, hoping, pleading...

Oh, a torch!

He quickly flicked it on, sighing in relief as it lit up the room and pointed it towards the ceiling. Nothing. He moved to the next room. Nothing. He glanced at his arms. Nothing. He flexed his hand as he carefully crept from room to room, reopening the wound and feeling the sticky liquid trickle down his fingers. The alien had to be on this floor by now, the staircase wasn't that tall. Wait, was that?...

He pointed the beam towards the ceiling, audibly sighing as a dusty trap door came into view. He pulled gratefully on the hatch, coughing slightly as dust poured out along with an old rope ladder. Sherlock grasped the edges and hauled himself up into the storage room. He closed the door and lay flat on his back, catching his breath as his heart pounded away in his chest. He pulled himself up, sweeping the torch around the room. He couldn't believe his luck.

There, propped against the wall were two hunting rifles, laying crossed over a dusty tiger pelt. He brought one of them down, checking it over. Empty and broken. He grabbed the other. Functional, and...

Loaded.

He smiled, laughing nervously to himself. It was heavy. Very heavy. The ancient floorboards creaked under their combined weight as Sherlock carefully made his way back to the trap door. This was it. He had one shot, he couldn't miss. One shot, straight through the head. Assuming it had a head...

He didn't give much notice to the angry floorboards until it was too late. He took one more step forward and they instantly splintered under his feet, sending him down to the floor below in a rain of dust and rotten wood. He landed hard on his back, rifle falling against his chest. He quickly sat up, ignoring the pain in his spine and looked around.  
It was right there.

Standing in the doorway, grotesque features distorted beyond anything even remotely resembling that of a humans, and clad in a tattered black suit, was the alien. The monster that had murdered eleven people, and, if Sherlock didn't act quickly, soon to be twelve.  
Sherlock raised the rifle just as the alien lifted it's three fingered hand. Electrical currents began to swim around the room, lighting up the interior and scorching the walls. But he couldn't get distracted now, he only had one shot.

One shot to the head, that's all it took.

The creature came crashing down, falling backwards into the hall and sending out a cloud of dust. Sherlock picked himself up again and stood over it, not once taking his eyes off the strange, suited thing.

He stood like that for a good five minutes while the alien stared up at him unblinking in that cold gaze of death. The poor thing's suit was battered and bloody, and it's leg was twisted and gnarled practically to the point of useless. Sherlock considered himself lucky, had he been up against a well and healthy alien, he wouldn't have stood a chance. He pressed his fingers into his palm. and wrote out another message to himself on the pale canvas of his arm. He picked up his torch from where it had fallen and, with one last look at the creature's body, turned away.

He caught a glimpse of his arm as he reached the stairs.

IT'S OVER. GO HOME. DON'T TURN BACK.

He breathed a sigh of relief and carefully made his way out of the house, not once looking back.


	4. Day 4

**And the finale to this little distraction. Now I can get back to writing my other fics. Lots of love to everyone following this and thanks for reading!**

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading a book when John walked through the door. He looked up briefly as his flatmate entered, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement. "John."

John nodded in turn, shrugging off his coat. "Sherlock." He looked around the flat, noting with a sigh of relief that nothing was burned, blown up, or missing altogether. "Had a nice Halloween, then?"

Sherlock set his book down, turning instead to pick up his violin. "I suppose. And yourself?" He settled the instrument under his jaw and started playing loudly before John could answer.

The doctor just rolled his eyes, setting his things aside as he walked through the house checking that everything was still in order, which was his routine for whenever he left Sherlock alone for more than a day. Nothing broken, nothing stained, nothing dripping with blood. He smiled once satisfied and made his way back to the sitting room, where Sherlock had dropped his music to a quiet wail. Well then, all seemed to be in order, aside from the usual clutter that made it's home in 221B. He turned to the kitchen, ready for a nice cup of tea after a long weekend.

He brought a couple of mugs down from the cupboard and was just setting them down on the counter when something caught his eye. An everyday black sharpie pen smeared with red and surrounded by splattered drops of dried blood, was resting casually on the counter as though it belonged there. He gingerly picked it up, avoiding the sticky crimson stains and brought it out to the sitting room. "Sherlock." He held the pen up for his flatmate to see. "What's this?"

Sherlock finished off his quiet melody, letting the last note fade out into nothing before dropping the violin from his chin and replacing it back by the window. He turned to look at what John was questioning, giving him that 'Isn't it obvious?' face. "That's a pen, John."

John nodded "Ok, yeah, and whose blood is on it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snatching the sharpie from his hand. "Mine." He set it down on the desk before making his way back to his chair and picking up his book.

John stared at him for a moment, taking a chance to really look at him for the first time since he'd entered the flat. Dark circles had begun to form under his eyes, and he looked even more malnourished than usual. A fresh bandage was wrapped neatly around his hand and a few faded black marks adorned his pale skin. "... What happened to you?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"Your hand"

He glanced down at the bandage, flexing his fingers slightly. "Oh, I cut myself yesterday."

John gave him a skeptical look "You were out on Halloween?"

"Yes, does that surprise you?"

"I wouldn't expect you to go out on such a nonsensical holiday."

"Oh quite the contrary. I had a marvelous time."

John raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I can't remember."


End file.
